


Holy & Broken (Hallelujah)

by helo572



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ana taking no shit, Angst, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Kidnapping, M/M, Omnic Crisis, Search and Rescue, Survivor Guilt, War Era, also told exclusively from Jack's POV, there will be Gabriel comfort I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9613103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helo572/pseuds/helo572
Summary: June 4, 2046OVERWATCH COMMANDER STILL MISSINGFears rise among the ranks of the public and the Overwatch itself following the mysterious disappearance of Commander Gabriel Reyes eight days ago.The first line is enough to make Jack feel sick.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [ **Hallelujah** \- Pentatonix ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRP8d7hhpoQ)
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> i've been in a block for a bit now then this comes out of nowhere. i've got more written up somehow, i'll throw it up as it comes and is beta'd. there is a plot, i swear.

They turn into a small overhead hallway, outdoor and with a slight chill from the rain that drizzles down from the overbearing grey of the Swiss clouds. It’s barely large enough for Gabriel and Jack to fit in side by side, given the overzealous spread of their shoulders in tandem.

 

“And you really think the Russian corps would go with that? Without the proper funding--” Gabriel’s frowning, brows pinched, weighed down by thoughts that entrench more heavily now the Crisis drags on.

 

Jack enthusiastically shakes his head, contesting. “No, but that’s the thing, their support _is_ practically the funding, once it goes through.” He licks his lips, hands joining in to emphasise his point. “We need at least their ground troops on the front lines, bolster our ranks, give some of the second or third tours a damn rest.”

 

“That means compromising their own lines.”

 

Gabriel just looks tired, and Jack can see the same vague sense of hopelessness reflected back to him when he stares in the mirror for too long. Fighting a war against machines, there was some parts of your humanity you had to sacrifice in order to stand a chance.

 

“Look - just. Don’t let it bother you too much.” Gabriel sets a firm hand on his shoulder. “The board is handling most of it. It’s _our_ job to get out there and make scrap metal.”

 

Jack sighs, leaning into the warmth radiating from the Commander’s palm. Knows when to give in, when he’s outranked, out-thought, when Gabriel’s lying about not letting it bother either of them. “Don’t forget smiling for the cameras.”

 

Gabriel huffs a laugh, but his quipped response dies on his lips, footsteps across the walkway also coming to a halt. Jack frowns, the hairs on the back of his own neck rising, senses straining against his skin as trouble inevitably stirs in the gloomy atmosphere of the rain.

 

A puddle collected a few steps of them shines silver in a gleam other than miserable sunlight, they both catch it, in time for them to be back to back when four people jump them to make their walkway suddenly feel an awful lot like a cramped broom closet. There’s no time for a clever remark, or a thought to how their base has been internally breached, their attackers are quick to the mark -- two for Jack and two for Gabriel.

 

It’s refreshing almost, the sticks they draw - not knives or guns - and how their ill-used hand-to-hand training kicks in a little slower than usual. Two for each hand, one of which immediately connects with Jack’s ribs as he swipes too high in immediate defense of the two attackers which charge him. He can’t look back at Gabriel to check on him, one point being that he trusts him, another is he is acutely focused on the stave which connects with his ribs - just as electricity dances off the end, visible static, blue and terrifying like the light behind Jack’s eyes.

 

It catches his skin with a jolt, stealing his breath away, despite the distance between them. The green eyes behind the shrouded mask seem surprised, almost, as he crumples so quickly - and pathetically - to the wet ground. His face scrapes the gravel collected by the rain, limbs uncooperative as he plants face-first to the concrete. The attackers are quick to accommodate, a knee digging into his back, then an arm twisted painfully up into his back. Then, there’s the press of a small handgun to the back of his head, however, all too familiar. He tries to move, but another hand takes its place, cruel fingers working roughly into his hair to graze his face against the ground.

 

It _clicks_ as green eyes cocks it, and he hears the moment Gabriel freezes. His boots stop scuffling, making the silence incredibly eerie, nothing but the sound of his pained breaths as his face burns, pressed into the dirt.

 

“You really ought to reconsider what you’re ‘bout to do.” Gabriel sounds - not pissed off, more disappointed, and really fucking tired. A lump quickly works its way to Jack’s throat, heavy and thick like the shame of being subdued like this sits in his gut, in the blossoming cuts on his face. “Whoever the fuck you work for, I don’t care, but killing him - or me - is gonna be the stupidest shit you’ve done in a long fuckin’ while.” Their silence is even worse, lengthed as Gabriel grunts, followed by the unmistakable sound of his knees sitting the concrete. “Talking it out would be your best option, right about now.”

 

“There’s nothing to say.” The accent is Russian, thick and slurring together English like it’s a distasteful concoction, sitting uncomfortably in their attackers’ mouths. “You are to come with us, Reyes. That is all.”

 

The Commander’s surprise is audible. “Me?” Not to Jack’s surprise, he laughs, but he’s known the man long enough to hear the inflection of fear in his voice as it touches the air. Even more so, now his face is pressed into the ground, murmurs of their brief fight whispered through the concrete. “Everybody else just books an appointment, my office isn’t that hard to find. Seein’ as you _somehow_ managed to-”

 

 _Crack_ . Jack’s heart aches. Gabriel doesn’t make a sound this time, but he can picture the look on his face - eyes narrowed to say _murder_ , lips pulled and teeth clenched so hard his jaw quivers.

 

“You are to come with us,” is the repeated order.

 

Gabriel spits before he answers, the noise grating against Jack’s eardrums, his chest. “And where exactly am I _coming_?”

 

“More than happy to show you, Commander Reyes.” A different voice, still Russian, but feminine. Sharp, with edges like a sleek knife, as if teased in front of the Gabriel’s face.

 

Yet, there’s silence, until Jack realises there are four sets of eyes raking across his restrained form, all silently deliberating. They are heavy, like the accents attached to them, sending a crawl of unease up his spine, different to the pain which gnaws at him. If they want Gabriel, that does not pose well for him - and that’s a horribly, awful selfish thought, one he hopes he can forgive himself for later.

 

Something quipped in Russian, and the gun is relented, a relieving absence of pressure against his burning face. Another order, Gabriel makes a sound before Jack realises the tightening grip on his hair then - _slam_ , straight into the concrete. The first one is a surprise, sending him spasming involuntarily, struggling against the force which holds him in place. The second and third one send his head swimming, aching, ears ringing with bells and-

 

“Jack--!”

 

The fourth is nothing at all.

 

\--

 

A mother’s love is - foreign, almost. Wrong. After all this time he still feels undeserving, even as he comes to with Ana Amari’s fingers raking through his hair, soft and comforting to chase away the ache behind his eyelids. He’s cold, wet, aching - yet she hushes him still and eases a biotic field to life between her fingers.

 

Her words, while teasing, hold that same tone she reserves for young wounded soldiers and Fareeha’s scraped knees, “You sit tight here, blonde boy, they’re sending someone.”

 

“Huh…” Thoughts churn desperately, trying to make sense of how he ended up here, shivering and soothed by his commanding officer, but he makes no sense of them. His head is swimming through milkshake, and he considers he wouldn’t mind one right about now, like his ma used to make back home.

 

“You’re not looking too pretty, Jack. I’d keep that mouth closed to save yourself a _little_ face.” A thumb strokes across his cheek, slick, he doesn’t let himself dwell too much on the implication of it but more the soothing tones of her voice. “There you go. That’s it, sweetheart.”

 

The warmth she breathes he is undeserving, he knows that, yet can’t remember why. It’s not enough to stop him from yearning for it, especially when replaced by the scuffle of boots, concerned murmurs, the scribbling of judgemental pens -- which all fade in and out as the rain passes -- until eventually they come to rest smelling of antiseptic and freshly cut grass.

 

The latter, he realises, is a dream of home, of the cornfields and gentle blue of the porch he used to weave in and out of. The former, he opens his eyes to investigate as the memory fades, to see sterile white and empty chairs. He’s lying down, a fact he’s thankful for with the nauseating headache right between his eyes, which pinches as the room comes into better focus. His hiss of discomfort sets off something to his left, which he forgets about until gentle faces swim into view beside him, perched in the chairs that match the unforgiving color of the walls.

 

“Lieutenant Morrison?” His title is easy enough to snap to attention for, they seem pleased as his eyes wander to focus on theirs, though he feels clumsy as he fights for their comforting smiles to stay in focus. That, and the concern that suddenly radiates across the room is - something. “Jack,” it’s a woman, brown skin and a soft smile. “It’s good to have you with us. I have a few questions to ask you, if you’re able to answer those for me.”

 

He’s _tired_ , he wants to say, aching and sore - but she’s persistent, kind, and he’s too groggy and confused to care. There’s a plastic cup of water presented to him, which he suddenly realises he’s sitting up to accept, yet misses when he goes to retrieve it from the hand’s fingers. The woman is still sitting there, more visible now he’s not craning his neck - she’s dressed in white scrubs, embroidered with an unmistakable logo over her breast - and yet-

 

The water is a blessing, once he steadies his uncooperative hands to crunch the cup into his mouth. The woman makes notes of all these things.

 

“ _Jack_ ,” she says again, smoothly, as if it were a prompt. “I’m Dr. Emebet Tesfaye, I’m just going to be asking you a few questions. I need you to take a look around for me - and tell me if you know where you are?”

 

The question makes him frown, even more so when his eyes ache at the whiteness which aggressively greets him. “In a hospital,” the answer is obvious, and hopefully decipherable, given how rough his voice is as it drags across his tongue. He clears his throat - once, twice, three times. His head swims.

 

She is nodding, scribbling. “Yes - do you know which hospital?”

 

His eyes are drawn to the logo, narrowing to a squint as she notices, moving to brush her shirt, fingers trailing the outside of the emblem. It’s orange and white - and makes his head hurt even more as the word is forced to the forefront of his mind.

 

“Overwatch. I’m - I’m with Overwatch.”

 

She seems - surprised, almost. He’s not sure whether that’s a good or bad thing. “Yes, that’s right. Do you know which base we’re currently situated at?”

 

Overwatch - orange and white, dragging against his thoughts, pressing at his headache like the lightness of the room which envelopes him. He’s so tired, too tired for this, just wants to sleep -

 

“Jack?” He opens his eyes - which had slid closed without his consent - and she has a gentle hand set to his. He’s incredibly pale, he realises, or it may be the sterile robes which smother him into the bed. “That’s okay. How about an easier question?”

 

He nods, with an added wince as a headache claws at the back of his skull, working through his head from the pinpoint between his eyes.

 

“Do you know the current year?”

 

That’s - actually harder than the last one, because his thoughts provide him with the menacing red eyes of a machine, a burst of hot flames across his back, the kickback of a rifle into his hands as an oddly comforting embrace. He loses himself in it. “2046. The peak of the Omnic Crisis.”

 

It’s confusing, because when he opens his eyes again he’s alone, save the darkness of the room surrounding him. The white is less aggressive now, simply a shade against his aching eyes, which do little harm with the absence of the sun. He shifts to sit up, to look around - the doctor and her hand are definitely gone and there’s - no one, bar the shift to his other side, the gentle sigh, the crinkle of paper as a page is turned in a well-read book.

 

“I couldn’t sleep, I apologise.” Ana Amari’s voice, his mind supplies him, with little thought. She sounds tired, too, much like what drags at him as he turns to look at her now. She is head to toe in sleep: hair mussed, jammies on, feet kicked up on the side of his bed in cat slippers. “Didn’t need Fareeha to keep asking me when-” She stops, looks him up and down, then smiles sadly, sets her book to one side. “Sorry,” she says again. “I just - the doctor thought it was better, perhaps, if you were to speak to somebody you knew.”

 

“At this hour?” he croaks in return. She smirks.

 

“Yes. Whenever. Said it’d make you more _Jack._ ” She leans forward, a pinch concerned, though there’s a lot more that holds her back rigid, trained eyes can see it. His head is still swimming, but Overwatch sits on him, over his head, around his shoulders with the blanket that’s been motherly tucked in. “Which is ridiculous, to me, mainly. You’ll come around.”

 

“I’m here now.”

 

The blanket is adjusted, his forehead smoothed over. “I know. But like you said, it’s the middle of the night. No doubt you’ve got the world’s greatest headache smothering you. I’ve just had too many cups of tea.” She laughs a little, but there’s no humor behind it. “How are you feeling?”

 

“World’s biggest headache.”

 

A more sincere sound, pulling at her lips like a piece of string. “Not surprised. But - you’re doing well, getting better. Holding a conversation with me is a step up from last time.” She’s teasing, he’s quick to realise, that smirk having returned full force. “Or perhaps I’m simply more interesting than the doctor.”

 

There’s flashes from before, her questions, his slow answers, how their concerned faces would tilt in and out of focus as he squinted at them. Waking up is hard. He lets his eyes fall closed, satisfied for now, more tired than uncomfortable. “Mmm,” he agrees, unintelligibly.

 

“Aw, Jack, always know how to flatter a woman. By falling asleep on her.” He rakes his eyes open, just to see her smirk envelope her entire face - eyes crinkle, eyebrows quirk. Still teasing. He remembers that about Ana Amari, and the soft fingers she has as she pats him on the arm. “You get some rest.” She leans back, he settles into the pillows, feeling oddly guilty. “I’m going to finish my book.”

 

\--

 

It gets progressively easier each time, the world becomes less fuzzier, more accessible as his head unfogs to match the simplicity of the sterile-white room. They ask a lot of questions, cognitive testing ones, where it’s eventually revealed he suffered a severe concussion - which explains most of it, the swimming of his head, the headaches, the tiredness, how the world is operating behind a thick curtain. What he notices, interestingly, is that he never gets to ask any of them anything, at least to the doctor.

 

Ana visits, Fareeha in tow, the strike team after half a tour is concluded in Baghdad, and other familiar faces. They all seem that odd end of concerned, which is not entirely reserved for him. They all tell him things, about their postings, what's happened in his unconscious absence, and yet nothing at all. It’s confusing, even more so now as the concussion subsides over the coming weeks, enough for him to talk a walk and have a proper shower.

 

The first time he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t recognise himself - a dramatic array of cuts of bruises mar his white skin, looking sickly in comparison to the sun-blonde of his hair. Red and yellow never went together. It’s still swollen, a slight twinge of purple around his eyes and his mouth, and painful when he thinks too hard and lets it show on his face.

 

It’s after visits to count, questions and tests and the guilt rising in his chest like a tidal wave, is he permitted to sleep in his own bed. He’s Lieutenant Jack Morrison, enhanced, a member of the Overwatch strike team in 2048, fighting the peak of the Omnic Crisis. Last week, he lost a major point in Russia, but it's one paling in comparison to the team's many victories during the atrocities of the war. Ana is one of his commanding officers, his friend first and foremost, and his commander Gabriel Reyes, is, well - missing. They tell him that as they release him in debrief. The director snags him first, before a proper nap does. It is too late for lies.

 

“Missing,” Jack repeats, eyes crinkling as he digests the information, the haze of the past few weeks. It all had slurred together since struggling awake for the first time, a constant stream of questions and visits, concern and guilt. Gabriel hadn’t been a part of any of that, and it bothers him they hadn’t told him - until now - but moreso that he _forgot_.

 

“Since your…. untimely injury, yes.” The Director is a woman, hawk-like and calculating beneath her spectacles that sit perched on her nose. She pools over a spread of paperwork on her massive desk, Jack sits opposite, feeling tiny. “Kidnapped by the same people who injured you, we have much reason to suspect.”

 

It feels a bit too much like a dream, having been out of the fight _that long_ yet somehow forgetting about Gabriel Reyes. He feels - awful. Sluggish. His headache returns, full force, pressing a deep frown onto his lips. Guilt surfaces in waves, lapping at his head, threatening to take him swimming once more.

 

“Captain Amari has been a competent leader in our global force given Reyes’ absence, but as you would understand, Lieutenant, we need the Commander back. For everyone's sakes.”

 

“He’s missing.” She seems annoyed at his repeated words, eyes narrowing behind her glasses. Her chair creaks as she sits up straighter, at his next question. “You can’t find him?” He still feels stupid, insignificant, a nuisance she could easily squish under her wrinkled thumb.

 

“No, we can't.” Almost unable to meet his eyes, she looks down at her paperwork, muling through it. No doubt about Gabriel’s case, about the attack, about Jack’s injuries which are nothing now, given what’s been allowed to fester. “And that concerns me a lot more than his absence.”

 

“Ransom demands?” She shakes her head. “Messages? Codes?” he tries next, she’s still shaking her head, eyes averted. “ _Anything?_ ”

 

“Not even a teased hair on his head.”

 

The sickly feeling of guilt eats Jack from the inside out, he nearly curls into the chair, throat pulling as it threatens to upturn his limited lunch. Gabriel is - gone. Nobody had told him, lying there, soaking up the warmth of the sun as his bones learned how to work again, finally breaking the surface of the water.

 

“You understand,” she goes on, but the cogs in his mind are too busy working to consider her words much, “that we haven’t been able to address this topic, until now. A side effect of your injury, as I’m sure they told you, was short term memory loss. Anything we said, about Reyes or the attack, the doctors were worried it would trigger a negative response.” Now she does look at him, he meets her gaze in return, blue eyes steeled. “Which is why I am asking now, finally - what _happened_?”

 

“You don’t know,” he states, in response. It comes off more accusing than he intends.

 

“The official report is many outdoor cameras had shorted given the rain. Including the corridor Amari found you in. We have - nothing, Lieutenant. Nothing to go off, to help us find Reyes. Our searches have been all in vain.”

 

That makes him feel worse, that Gabriel’s pain or suffering might have been prolonged because of _him_ , sprawled comfortably against some pillows.  Hell, it claws nausea all the way up his throat, a prolonged sense of guilt, the one that’s been stirring in his chest since Ana visited that first night ago, with that heavy look in her eyes and pity on her tongue, not reserved entirely for him.

 

Did they blame him? It’s torturing, a twisting feeling that threatens to burst his gut in two, makes his head pound with renewed vigor. The director anchors him back, eyes piercing, “So I need you to explain to me, Morrison, what the hell happened on that walkway.”

 

Confronted with the memories, he recounts it to her with each of his five senses, voice laden with guilt. The debrief for the failed Russia strike, the shared guilt they both held, the need for Russian support, then the intermission. The silence.

 

“They must have been waiting, knew we would take the route. Four - assassins, now I think about it, all armed with staves. Electrified. They got me - got me immediately, a rookie mistake, used me against him.”

 

She’s noting this down with great interest, either oblivious to the nausea obvious in Jack’s voice, or ignoring it. “And of the assassins?”

 

“At least two of them were Russian.”

 

Her white eyebrows climb to her forehead. “Russian?”

 

“Yes. One male, one female. The male had green eyes. The other two didn’t speak - and they were all wearing masks. The female was making demands, wanted Gabriel to come with her, didn’t share why. He tried to reason, they wouldn’t let him. Hit him.” Fuck, he’s going to be sick. “And I just - lied there. They got me with the stave first swipe, gun pressed to my head. They must have beaten me as they dragged him away. Could hear him shouting for me, I think, then Ana was there. That’s it.”

 

“That helps a lot more than you would think, Morrison.” Her praise is unfamiliar to him, definitely, and falls on deaf ears as he lingers in the events of the past few weeks. “We had reason to suspect Russia was connected, given our failed defence of Kazan. That grudges were being immensely held. But this adds fire to those suspicions, so I thank you.”

 

“You could have asked me sooner.” He’s accusing again, with underlying anger stirring in his words. He’s not sure who at - the woman before him, the doctor, Ana and the other guard, or himself. The director, however, doesn’t look surprised.

 

“We couldn’t. You didn’t remember, for one, and weren’t coherent enough for the recount of events you just gave me.” There’s pity in her eyes, reserved solely for him now, as she leans forward to address him. He feels dirty, nauseous, like there's a big gaping hole in his chest drowning in guilt. “Speak with Dr Tesfaye when you can, Jack, she can explain better than I can. You shouldn’t take this on yourself.”

 

Except he can, and he will, Gabriel’s kidnapping being entirely his fault. His _prolonged_ capture. If he was the key to finding him was that short debrief, he should have been cut, melded down to something useful - far more quicker than changing the lock, waiting for him to fit.

 

“Get some rest, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.”

  
He leaves without another word, returns to his quarters, and throws up.

**Author's Note:**

> much love goes to kyomnin and spoons for beta reading <3
> 
> typos let me know, or comments or questions! thanks for reading, you're all lovely.


End file.
